The Fairy and her Cavalier
by asgards
Summary: Before her debut as the Sugar Plum Fairy with the Winston Royal Ballet, Molly Hooper briefly ponders over the Hell her partner, Sherlock Holmes, put her through in the production process.


Hello Everyone! This is the first fanfic I've ever uploaded on here! As a disclaimer, I should note that I actually wrote this around 3 years ago...really [oi the things you can find on google drive]. Nevertheless, I thought it would be interesting to just upload it and see what happens. I actually intended for this to be the first segment of a 3-part piece, but as of now I've decided to scrap it.

Well, I hope you enjoy it!

I hope to post more of my (much better) writing in the future :D

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 _The_ Sugar Plum Fairy. And _her_ cavalier. Finally, she can call herself a _real_ ballerina–the kind found in music boxes, the kind that lives in glitter and taffeta saturated worlds made of candy. _At least three hundred people paid fifty pounds to see me perform, many even more than that._ The thought wrings out winces from her trembling figure, paltry arid breaths. She pinches herself out of her ponderance, yet an overwhelming tremor lingers. Her fingers loosely grasp the gentle silk of her bodice as she watches the corps de ballet gracefully dance across the stage, flowers in a delicately beautiful meadow.

The soothing melody of the Waltz calms her nerves, but the thoughts continue to constrict her breaths, already limited by by her bodice. Quite the opposite of soothing, the exhale of her cavelier lightly traces the back of her head; his hum lingers longer than it should...

" _Molly Hooper?" Sherlock scoffs, his hands dismissively waving in the air. "I refuse to dance with her. Ms. Adler is far more apt for this role, we both know that, Martha." He bolts toward the studio's door with a gratuitously loud huff. There is no way He-the widely-renowned principal dancer of Winston Royal Ballet-would dance with the far inferior, inexperienced Molly Hooper._

" _If you walk out that door, you will never dance with us again," Director Hudson calls out to him. Sherlock pauses- his tall, sinewy figure wavering as each moment passes. "There is more to Ms. Hooper than you realize, Sherlock. In due time, you'll see. Don't let your arrogance blind you." Honestly, Sherlock couldn't care less; his career meant everything. He worked hard for it-Why let a talentless girl ruin it for him? With eyes like thorns, he looks to Director Hudson and sighs once more._

" _Fine."_

 _At the barre, Molly feigns ignorance as she continues her plié combination. Her throat constricts and her eyes water; she grinds her teeth, determined to keep her mouth closed. She turns her head to the wall; she looks down, only her hand is visible through her tear-stained vision. A bright redness engulfs her ivory skin. Molly knows that at least a small amount of what Sherlock said rang true; she knows that her inexperience shines in each step she takes. At this point in her career, she had only performed in the corps–never even a single feature. As astonishing as the casting was, Molly knew she was closer to reaching her dream: principal dancer._

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" _No, Molly. Your form is completely wrong. Tighten your core and try again," a low voice barks._

 _It has already been four hours of rehearsing and the new principal's composure begins to wither away. As fatigue weighs down her arms, a burgeoning migraine pounds her conscience, and the blood dripping from her concealed wounds envelope her feet, decorated with numerous blisters. None of this matters though-dancers don't whine. They are a fantasy, one that doesn't include menial things such as physical pain. Dancers are feathers or fairies. They exude grace, elegance–not struggle._

" _Ok…" Molly says, her voice barely squeaking over her ragged breaths. She moves into fourth position and begins her fouettes again._ Ok...eight pirouettes...then he lifts me from passé...then développé both legs and land in arabesque...oh Molly don't miss this again…

Oh I was so close... _Her ankles contort, releasing a chorus of strained pops. Quivering, moist hands tightly grip Sherlock's shirt–each exhale haggard with the burn of her folly._ Damn those ankles _, she silently chastises as her vision spins. The scent of a salty musk singes her nostrils;_

 _Sherlock promptly relinquishes his grip on his partner._

 _Yet, it's that final word..._

"Pathetic."

 _...that snatches any hope she had._

 _The door slams shut, the light dims. Needles prick at her feet, intensifying as each moment passed. From her small place on the wooden floor, she hears the patter of ballet slippers melt into the silence of midnight._

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 _Before dawn the next day, Sherlock returns to the studio to rehearse his segment of the pas de deux–but hears the faint melody of the coda as he enters. Intrigued, he follows the music to one of practice rooms, and finds Molly relentlessly rehearsing her final fouette combination in the Coda. Through the window in the hallway, he watches as her fight the tire that increases the weight of her limbs._ She's not terrible, simply lacks finesse. She's graceful, but unremarkable. Her technique was actually quite polished…but demonstrates the timidity of inexperience. Her fingers move in harmony with her wrists, with her elbows, with the music; perhaps she had once been a musician?

 _With each turn, Molly's vision briefly blackens. Except for painkillers, she hasn't eaten anything; she only napped for two hours before returning to the impossible combination: Irene Adler's infamous octuple pirouette into the lift. She had been so close last night, and would not stop until she had finally achieved this feat._

 _Once again, she places her feet in fourth positions and readies for take-off:_

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven...Eight._

 _With that last rotation her weak ankle buckled again, sending her on yet, another tumble. Instead of the hardwood floor, a pair of hands grip her waist. Molly's vision completely dims, her limbs numb, but the chill of this person's touch briefly sustains her consciousness. Her own labored exhalations and the pounding ache that reverberates in her head replace Tchaikovsky's score. In the haze, a small remark withers into a whisper:_

" _Rest, Molly."_

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For a brief moment Molly looks up to Sherlock, but his eyes remain glazed over the stage. He remains calculating, not even trying to conceal his apathy toward this beautiful dance. Of course. This was _his_ show anyway-at least that's what he'd insist. After her fainting spell a few weeks back, Molly anticipated a change in her partner's countenance. Yet, this fantasy was to remain as such. She was sure that Sherlock had become a bit softer toward her, but soon realized she had perhaps become accustomed to his harsh demeanor. Disenchanted by the thought, Molly's gaze returns to the spectacle before her. She now looks intently at the shining flurry of pink and green. Under the lights, they glisten like flowers after rainfall. This abundance of color replaces the sterile white studio that hosted the last few months' tribulations, and the thoughts that still haunt her.

"Are you ready, Molly Hooper?" He suddenly inquires. Molly sucks in a breath, tightening the grip on her tutu.

"Before we go on, I must apologize. You're not _that_ terrible. You actually have...potential...I watched your turns the day after your ankle injury...Impressive. " For a moment, Molly considers the validity of this "compliment," but she knows this is the closest Sherlock will ever come to uttering one. Each kind (or if one could really call it that) word that she hears only sound like the futile attempts of a man who expects a betrayal of a woman subjected to his cruelty.

"You didn't _actually_ apologize. Therefore, you haven't quite given me the option to accept it, so I'll go ahead and say that I refuse to accept your apology. To be frank, you're the worst person I've ever worked with–and perhaps ever met. You are incredibly talented, but don't think, for one moment, that I respect you."

A prolonged silence follows Molly's words–soon replaced by the Waltz's final trumpet flares. No utterances left Sherlock's mouth, only a soft sigh. Without their entrance imminent, he places one arm around Molly's waist, and offers his other hand. As Molly clasps, the quivers cease; her breaths slow. Ready to the enter the stage, she flashes Sherlock a smile–the kind dedicated to an adoring audience. As the patrons applause roars, she lets out one final comment:

"Sherlock, please don't let your arrogance blind you, I have a show to perform."


End file.
